


Fruits of Waking

by millstonetooth



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Banter, Blowjobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, a little sad on achilles part but majority happy and feel good, but also its just porn, handjobs, this is very sentimental
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 10:26:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27469471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millstonetooth/pseuds/millstonetooth
Summary: Achilles dreams of Patroclus. But this time, Patroclus is with him when he awakens.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 513





	Fruits of Waking

**Author's Note:**

> its 4 am, this probably has mistakes, but oh, these 2 deserve to have sex and be happy, so here! just that

Achilles is dreaming of Patroclus’s hands, again.

Warm, calloused hands-- fingers crooked from various fractures and resets, skin of his knuckles pearly from being cut open then rehealing only to be cut open again. Pads of his palms hardened from gripping his spear, from the grueling work of war. In the shifting, unfocused murk of Achilles’ dreams, he sees Patroclus’s hands sharpening a spear with a whetstone, sees them hovering and twitching in thought as he pauses to choose his morning fruit (an apricot, it is--was--his favorite), blocking out the rays of the sun, curled in a fist, open against Achilles’ thigh--heavy and alive--then carding through his hair with so much gentleness and adoration that it makes Achilles’s stomach ache with it, even in dream.

Most nights, if he’s dreaming of Patroclus, they’re only fleeting things. Loving hands that Achilles knows-- _ known _ \--as well as his own reach for him briefly, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, but then are gone again. Here and back. Dreams aren’t reliable, they leave Achilles gutted and weak when he awakes again alone, but they’re all he has. Afterimages of ghostly echoes. 

But some nights, nights like these when the Fates are feeling particularly kind (or cruel, as he once viewed it), Achilles dreams  _ vividly _ .

Achilles dreams of Patroclus’s hands.

_ He dreams of Patroclus’s steady, heavy grip on his inner thigh, squeezing. Achilles keens, can’t help how his breath peeters into a sharp whimper, and he’s rewarded with Patroclus’s soft chuckle against his neck. _

_ “Ease, Achilles,” he teases. His hands feel both achingly real and painfully ephemeral, yanking Achilles closer with firm grips on his hips, bold and self assured just how Achilles likes it. Achilles isn’t fragile nor wholly mortal and Patroclus’s grip reflects that, fingers pressing into his flesh in ways that would make a more fragile man grimace yet coaxes pleasured sighs from Achilles. _

_ “I missed you,” Achilles says, pained, but Patroclus doesn’t hear him, his hands reaching down between Achilles legs to grip his cock, his rough callouses providing a delicious friction. Achilles bucks into it and Patroclus indulges, providing Achilles a tight space for his cock to rut through. “I love you,” Achilles gasps, desperate for Patroclus to hear it. “I love you so much, Pat--” _

Achilles wakes with a start, instincts kicking in to grab the hand that hovers near his stomach with a deadly efficiency that not even the afterlife has managed to dull. Patroclus raises his brows in surprise-- when Achilles sleeps with him, that sort of intuitive vigilance quiets some, comfortable in Patroclus’s presence in his bed. But Achilles had long since abandoned wistful prospects that his bed may ever be anything but coldly empty, dreams of Patroclus’s hands awakened only to painful hardness and frigid alone. 

But things change. The Fates shift, their wills take the shape of a brimstone godling who somehow, regardless if Achilles ever deserved it, allowed Achilles to wake up to Patrcolus at his side.

He doesn’t deserve it. But the selfishly human part of him doesn’t care.

“You were calling my name,” Patrcolus says, hand returning to rest on Achilles’ midsection. Achilles wants to glance off in shame, but that would mean looking away from Patroclus, so he doesn’t.

“Ah.” Achilles’s face heats up. Can’t help it. It’s been so  _ long _ . He almost feels boyish, being caught. “Did I?”

Patroclus’s mouth quirks into a smile, and Achilles immediately reaches up to feel the edges of his lips, the shape of it. Patroclus turns his head to kiss his fingertips. “You did. Sounded nice.” His hand smooths down Achilles chest, so much warmer and more solid than a dream ever could be. “You were rutting against my thigh,”

_ Now _ Achilles blushes, a full red. “You have a way with your hands,” he edges, embarrassed. Patroclus laughs, bell-like and light; Achilles feels his breath catch at the sound of it.

“Since when are you shy?” Patroclus says, raising to his elbow so he hovers over Achilles, his hair hanging loose with errant strands falling over Achilles face. Achilles catches one between his fingers to kiss it.

“Not shyness, rather...unaccustomed. Takes a bit of acclimating, having my bed be graced with your presence again,” Achilles says softly. He tries not to sound pained, but it colors his words regardless. Patroclus’s gaze softens. The hand on Achilles’ chest comes up to cup his face, tilting him back to press a heated kiss into his lips. Achilles clings, hands taking root in Patroclus’s full hair to grip the back of his neck again, pull him closer, push his lips apart to slide his tongue in. But Patroclus pulls back, rests his forehead against Achilles’.

“What is it?” Achilles asks. Presses another kiss to the corner of Patroclus’s mouth, because he can.

“You keep distracting me,” Pat accuses.

“Sorry,”

“No, you aren’t,”

“No, I’m not,” Achilles agrees, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt.

“Tell me about your dream,” Patroclus prompts, his hand resuming its downward path. Death doesn’t require things like breathing or heartbeats or sweat or blood or, hell, cum, but perhaps as a parting gift, a spare benevolence before leaving souls to the grueling monotony of the afterlife--or at least to the warriors fit for Elysium--Achilles’ heart hammers in his chest even if it serves him no purpose beyond making him feel lightheaded and hopelessly horny.

“You, ah. It wasn’t a long dream,” Achilles says, canting his hips up for better ease. Patroclus’s calloused hand drags rough and slow, stopping just below Achilles stomach to squeeze teasingly. “ _ Pat _ ,”

“For a short dream you certainly were enjoying it,” Patroclus says. He digs his fingers teasingly into Achilles’ abdomen. “Come now, tell me,”

“You-- dreamt of your hands,” Achilles says finally, unable to deny Patroclus anything. The heat of Patroclus’s eyes emboldens him, and he wets his lips, thrilled by how Pat’s gaze follows his tongue. “You were touching me, just like this, but--”

“More?” Pat interrupts, and then his hand blessedly moves lower. Achilles’ cock leaks against his hip, twitching to attention before Patroclus even touches it. Achilles is already well past full hard and is leaking steadily.

“You were stroking me,” Achilles says breathlessly, and  _ whines _ when Patroclus finally grips his cock loosely. “Yes, but tightly--”

“If I did that, you’d cum, wouldn’t you?” Patroclus says, not as a question, and Achilles whimpers as his grip remains lax and almost skimming. “Achilles?”

“I would,” Achilles agrees. He reaches up, hand grabbing Patroclus’s chest to squeeze his pectoral, as much to touch and appreciate as it is to ground Achilles. Patroclus grunts, low and pleasured, and Achilles digs his fingers into Pat’s skin, slides over to find his nipple and worry it, just how he knows Pat likes it. Both of them are fully nude, long accustomed to sleeping together as such, and Patroclus’s own cock twitches against Achilles’ side. “Hah, I feel like a boy again with how--  _ ah _ , how threadbare my appetence feels these days,” Achilles breathes, delighted in how Patroclus huffs a soft laugh against his cheek.

“I’d admonish you but truthfully I’d be a hypocrite,” Patroclus admits, and finally,  _ finally _ squeezes Achilles cock a little tighter. Achilles gasps raggedly, and Patroclus was right, he  _ is _ about to cum, just from that. “If I let you cum, would you do it for me again?” Patroclus asks, the lower timbers of his soft voice rumbling against Achilles.

Achilles tears his eyes away from Patoclus’s hand as it pumps the length of his cock to meet his steady gaze. Even through the haze of his impending orgasm, Achilles has enough clarity to firmly answer. “Yes,”

Patroclus catches him in a searing kiss, beard scratching Achilles chin and swallowing his gasping cry. His hand grips tighter, a hot, damp squeeze slick from Achilles precum to push into. It racks Achilles with hot electricity, and it's far sharper and more intense than even the most vivid of dreams could hope to echo. Achilles grabs Patroclus’s arm with his other hand, fingers digging into the muscled curve of his bicep; not to still him but to brace, something to cling to as Achilles’s hips pump into Patroclus’s unrelenting grip and he spills helplessly, messily, over his beloved’s fist.

Patroclus doesn’t let go right away, firmly squeezes a few more strokes up and down Achilles length to make him writhe in the prickling oversensitivity with practiced knowledge of Achilles limits before finally letting him go. Achilles falls boneless against the bed, spent cock throbbing against his stomach, and Patroclus gazes at him with such raw adoration that Achilles can’t help but shiver under it before tilting his head back for a kiss that Patroclus instinctively grants him.

Achilles paws Patroclus’s chest, spending the time between reeling in his ragged breath to touch, and then to reach between Patroclus’s legs and palm his cock. Patroclus groans and Achilles sucks at his lower lip, goading him to take Achilles’ face in his hands and lick into his hot mouth.

When they break to pant against each other’s mouths--pointless in death but too ingrained in the body to relinquish the instinct--Achilles slides his hands off Patroclus’s cock to stroke his chest again. “Pat, let me suck your cock,” he begs, unnecessary as Patroclus can’t deny him anything either, and Patroclus  _ moans _ .

“ _ Achilles _ ,” he says, heavy with desire, visibly thrilled by Achilles’ frank profanity. He moves up the bed to give Achilles space to crawl between his spread thighs, cards Achilles hair back to lock gazes.

Achilles takes a moment to appreciate Patroclus’s thighs, gripping the broad expanse of them with perennial fondness. “Remind me to thank whomever tailored your outfit in Elysium,” Achilles says, pushing Patroclus’s legs apart to squeeze at his inner thighs. “That short little chiton does wonders to accentuate certain assets,” Achilles punctuates this by sucking a bruise along Patroclus’s femoral artery but away from his cock; perhaps recompense for Patroclus’s earlier withholdings.

Patroclus chuffs a laugh, good natured, and pushes Achilles’ hair away from his forehead, his touch lingering. “And yet where I’d been fit to parade, you are humbled,” Patroclus says. “Almost prudishly, even. Your robe trails along the ground, my Achilles,”

Patroclus’s amusement is infectious and he smiles, presses a kiss to the skin against him. He could say something about how it’s deserved, that he’s chased enough glory that a mildly abasing and fastidious outfit is fitting for him, but he refrains. The melancholy doesn’t fit the present.

Instead, Achilles presses a kiss to the junction where Patroclus’s cock meets his balls, relishing in how it makes the man under him stutter and his cock jump. Words fail either of them in that moment, too encompassed by want.

Achilles draws his tongue up the underside of Patroclus’s cock, sucking the broad head of it into his mouth and sinking back down along its length. It's a practiced motion that lacks patience, but Achilles can sense in the tautness of Patroclus’s muscles that he doesn’t need any more teasing. A hand returns to his hair, pushing it away from his face, and they lock gazes again, Patroclus’s lashes fluttering but eyes kept open to watch.

Achilles keeps his jaw slack and reaches down to squeeze Patroclus’s balls, drinking in the sight of Patroclus coming undone under his tongue and lips. Patroclus’s hips roll up sinuously, off the bed and deeper into Achilles’ welcoming throat, and for a moment he’s so lost in pleasure that his eyes fall closed and his head tilts back, abs squeezing as he thrusts up and in. Achilles feels lightheaded with reverence, bobs his head and swallows, gives, gives as much as he possibly can in physicality-- keeps his eyes opened and trained on Patrcolus’s face as it falls open, his head lolling to the side and his jaw gone slack around a moan that’s so soft and wanting and so beautifully him that Achilles feels himself stirring again between his legs.

When Patroclus comes he’s surprisingly quiet, little more than a faltering, breathy sigh, said hot and fervent around “ _ Achilles _ , oh Achilles--” Achilles swallows all of it, wasting none, and Patroclus slides smoothly back out of his mouth to fall contently against the bed. Achilles lets him lie there for a moment to catch his breath and wipes his mouth carefully, purposefully, with the palm of his hand. Patroclus snorts, eyes heavily lidded, and then rears back with a shout when Achilles dives to him for a kiss.

“No, absolutely  _ not _ ,” Patroclus hisses, trapping Achilles mouth with his hand. “You do not kiss me after you swallow my cum,”

Achilles knows this, knows Patroclus (fondly) despises it, and plants his kiss instead into the palm pressed against him. “But I do, and I have,” Achilles says, muffled, tugging at Patroclus’s wrists and reaches in after Patroclus who leans away in feigned disgust. “Come here, my love, so cruel to refuse me of a congratulatory kiss after I so kindly swallowed your cock--”

“Precisely why I want nothing to do with your mouth near mine,” Patroclus laughs, cursing Achilles as he twists his head away from encroaching lips.

“Come here,”

“Get your filthy mouth away from me--”

“I love you so, let me show you--”

“Achilles, I’ll break your lovely spear, don’t you dare--”

“An acceptable consequence if it means proudly displaying my affections--”

They both yelp as they tumble suddenly over the side of the bed in a miscalculated lunge, with Patroclus unfortunately pinned under Achilles and unable to fling a hand up in time to stop the lips that plant themselves wetly on his cheek.

“Eugh,  _ Achilles _ ,” he snaps, wiping his cheek in disgust, but his eyes are bright and alive with mirth. “I detest you,”

Achilles laughs, full and warm and as he did once in life, years ago when he and Patrcolus were young and freshly in love. “Do you? Never kiss me again?”

“No, I don’t think I will,” Patroclus agrees. “You’re a brute. Never again shall my lips grace yours,”

“Not even if I ride your cock?”

Patroclus pauses, and neither of them blink. Then, eventually:

“Well. Perhaps I can be swayed,”


End file.
